Nothing But Sweets Rots the Teeth
by mrsProbie
Summary: Abraxas wants something that his wife can't bring herself to give him: passion. Written for AlwaysPadfoot's 52 Weeks, Round 4, as well as for the Minor Character Boot Camp, prompt three.


**A/N: Written for Always Padfoot's 52 Weeks, Round 4, as well as the Minor Character Boot Camp.**

**52 Weeks Compulaory****Prompts:** _diversion_, school closure, abandoned, dangerous, warning, _fed_ _up_, 'Well would you look at that.', _fun_, moon

**52 Weeks Optional Prompts**: Hot Chocolate, 'The First years must be having a field day.' _bedroom_, _cosy_, _'Strong and Sugary please?',_ _brash_, wings, _calm before the storm_

**Minor Character Boot Camp Prompt**: _3) Forbidden_

Abraxas Malfoy found Lacerta Black rather dull for his tastes; he was always looking for something fun to do (or, as she put it, "some mess to get into"), while she was perpetually waiting to go home (or, as he put it, "return to that silent hell"). He wanted to go out and meet friends for drinks at the pub, and she wanted to stay in and sip tea with her sisters over sewing. In general, Abraxas wanted a diversion from the tedious nature of life with Lacerta.

(Not that she wasn't beautiful.)

Oh, yes, she was beautiful; it wasn't that he wasn't attracted to the woman- physically, anyway. He could become aroused by Lacerta just looking at her. However, things quickly ran downhill whenever she spoke. He was becoming quite fed up with dealing with talking to her. Despite his initial confidence in the stability of their marriage only two years before, Abraxas was finding it quite difficult to love her based solely on such admittedly small things as her figure, her hair, or her eyes.

(Not to mention that she generally hid her figure underneath overly modest clothing, kept her hair swept behind her head in a neat and conservative bun, and had eyes masked with contempt for his suave, debonair, and more than slightly unfaithful ways.)

It wasn't Abraxas's fault that if he wanted a little excitement in his life he had to find it in another woman. He didn't always sleep with them, either: just as often he would stay up late into the night with them only drinking wine and waxing philosophical or discussing some literary work or other. It was more the lure of the women- these sensual, liberal, deliciously and beautifully _forbidden_ women- than anything that they could actually offer him.

(Not that he would turn down an offer from one of a number of particularly beautiful women.)

He often met them in bars; the most interesting of the "liberated" women would occasionally stop in and visit this mens' domain. Although one would think that, being liberated and all that, they would be more difficult to engage, Abraxas could often tell which of the flock of black sheep would be easiest to coerce into a conversation after several drinks. They were generally few and far between, relatively speaking, but their scarcity only made them more appreciable when found.

And oh did he think he had found one. Situated several seats down the bar, this woman was everything that Lacerta was not: where Lacerta tied her straight blond hair back and hid under her clothing, this woman let her hair- auburn, it seemed- flow wild and curly down her back and appeared to have dressed to impress. Hell, the woman was wearing pants! He had to speak to her, engage her, even if he had to damn near trick her into it. He stood to approach her- no. _Now, now, _Abraxas admonished himself, _no need to be rush. When rushed, behavior is brash. When behavior is brash, the ladies choose to stay segregated from the gentlemen._

Unfortunately, he couldn't help but want to take action. He wanted this woman; his mind yearned for her independence and his body ached for hers. The longing stirring in his heart was that of a hopeless, helpless romantic seeking to spend time with someone who could make sense of his attempts at conversation, but that which was stirring closer to his loins- an intimately familiar, aching longing- was less noble, less admirable, and less beautiful. He wanted to talk to this woman, but then he wanted to take her- not to make love, but to have sex. To _fuck_, if you will.

He lost himself in his imagination. Rather than full scenes, his mind was providing glimpses, snapshots as though captured with a magical camera. This woman batting her eyes demurely over a glass of champagne as he rants (about wizards' natural inclinations to trust Plato, the first true wizarding philosopher, simply because of his position as the first in recorded history rather than on the basis of his philosophy). This same woman stripping herself down, not allowing him to assist her, down to her undergarments and beyond. Her lying in his arms, panting post-coitus, cosy under his comforter (the blue room in his closest property, not the home that he shared with Lacerta; sleeping with another woman he was capable of- doing the same in their personal bedroom, not as willingly).

Shaking himself slightly, bracing himself for the night to come, he reminded himself that he couldn't engage her without speaking to her. With that, he rose from his stool and strode confidently to her own seat at the bar. "Hello, miss," he began, smiling, giving what Lacerta called his 'silly roguish look'. "Might I interest you in a drink in exchange for your company?"

The woman smiled gently. _Beautiful. _"That sounds lovely." Her voice was that of an angel- an angel with a pitchfork and perhaps some dainty horns of sin, but an angel nonetheless. "Strong and sugary, please?"

"I know just what to get you-"

"On second thought, I'll choose," the woman continued. She summoned the barkeep, placed her order, and turned expectantly to Abraxas. _Well would you look at that. _"My name is Vivien. And yours?" So eager to speak to him, and he didn't even have to cover her drink up front.

(Not that he planned on letting her leave without covering her tab.)

The next day, Abraxas Malfoy awoke in an empty bed in his second house smelling suspiciously of a woman other than his wife. He didn't bother to shower or cover Vivien's smell before returning home; why would he? Lacerta knew where he had been, and he knew that she knew.

He entered their home haphazardly, slamming the front door closed- damn thing had to be slammed or it wouldn't stay shut- before stomping through the parlor and dining room to get to the kitchen, where he knew he would find Lacerta laboring over some pudding or pastry or morsel of _something. _Sure enough, there she was, bent over the sink, furiously stirring a bowl of something chocolate. As his footsteps entered the kitchen, she paused in her efforts, and her shoulders rose and fell dramatically as she took first one deep breath, then two.

Abraxas would have loved for that to be the calm before the storm, some sort of sign of her fury or warning of her rage, a testament to the dangerous nature of both woman and hurricane. But that would have been getting off lucky, having a wife with whom he could argue, make up, and make passionate love. With whom he could discuss anything while talking about nothing.

No, he was stuck with a woman who couldn't bring herself to make anything but sweets, forcing him to eat out if he wanted a legitimate meal.


End file.
